


When You're King

by LittleSpacePrince



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anyways yeah heres some filth, Blow Jobs, But only if you squint, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Daddy Kink, Everything in TRB could have been avoided if sherlock had cuddled with jim, Jim Moriarty likes cuddles after sex, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Tension, Virgin Sherlock, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 11:41:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9383402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleSpacePrince/pseuds/LittleSpacePrince
Summary: “Now, everyone wants me. Rogue governments, intelligence agencies, terror cells…You.”He smirked, pushing a hand through his dark curls, tugging hard until those blue eyes met his. “They all want me. Suddenly, I'm Mr. Sex.”“When you’re the king, everyone wants a taste.” He teased before claiming Sherlock’s mouth, the detective powerless to stop it, though the way that he melted into him suggested that there wasn’t much resistance in him to begin with.“I sure like the way you taste, Sherlock.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [postmortemdesign](https://archiveofourown.org/users/postmortemdesign/gifts).



Sherlock had always been a tad… self-obsessed. Self-destructive, self-loathing, self-interested, _self-obsessed._

And then he'd come across Jim Moriarty. 

His perfect counterpart, his perfect mirror. He'd felt it since the pool, had always felt that draw, that pull, that tug. It was a loathing. It was a need to destroy. It was an interest and curiosity. 

It was an obsession. 

And he sat across from him now, sipping at his tea, eyeing him down from across the room. Sherlock crossed his legs, the sexual tension between them almost tangible, hot and sticky between his fingers, smothering him with every glance, drowning him with each look in the eyes. He could feel the man in front of him in his lungs, inhaling him with each breath. It was painful, this magnetic pull between them tugging them toward each other. It felt as though the skin was being torn from his bones in attempt to get closer to him. 

They always did say that opposites attracted, and Moriarty, Moriarty was his perfect opposite. He was a reflection. All the same, and yet entirely different. They stood on opposing sides across the thin line of Heaven and Hell, leading their armies of angels and demons, like Michael and Lucifer in the end of days. And Sherlock, in all of his relative innocence when it came to sex, couldn’t help but feel aroused at the very idea of it. 

He wanted it. 

He wanted to feel his body around him, his filthy words hot against his ear, him. He wanted everything. There was something so filthy and raw and wrong about him, about having him, about taking him, about fucking him. There was something so wrong about having him, about taking his body. Sherlock could feel the beginnings of an erection between his thighs, his length growing firm as he stared at the man who may as well have been the devil. 

He knew it was wrong. He didn't care. 

“In a world full of locked doors, the man with the key is king, and honey you should see me in a crown.” Moriarty sung out, voice light and airy, almost sing-songy as he rose from his seat, sitting down his tea and his apple, striding with hands tucked behind his back toward the youngest Holmes brother. 

Sherlock began to follow his lead, rising slightly from his seat, but the consulting criminal curled a hand hard around his shoulder and shoved him back into his chair. Oh no, no, no, not when the fun was just beginning. He moved to straddle Sherlock’s legs, dropping down onto his lap. The consulting detective was going nowhere, not quite yet, not until he'd had his fun. And they _were_ going to have a bit of fun. 

The consulting criminal could feel the younger man’s erection pressing up against him, poking hard between his thighs. _Virgins._ They always did get so hard so easily. He was so inexperienced. Would probably come all over himself like a teenager. 

Sherlock felt his cock ache between his thighs, could've come just from the warmth above him. He instinctively thrust up into him before forcing himself still. It wasn’t unlike him to act purely on instinct. He was cold, calculated, but within the heat of the moment, there was some reminders that he was still completely utterly human, as much as he hated to admit it. He stilled after one thrust of his hips, biting back a small whine, the simple stimulation sending waves of pleasure through him. 

“Down, boy.” Moriarty whispered, voice husky in his ear as the man began to rock above him. He ran a tongue over his earlobe before biting down, nibbling slightly against the skin there, sending chills down the Holmes boy’s spine. The criminal knew precisely what he was doing, knew how to bring the detective to his knees. It was simple, especially with Sherlock. He was clever, sure, but cleverness had nothing to do with skill, not when it came to sex. It didn’t matter what you knew when it came right down to the carnality, the primal urges, of sex. 

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat at the feeling, but refused to give him the satisfaction of showing it. _Loathing, destruction, curiosity, obsession, loathing, destruction, curiosity, obsession, loathing, destruction, curiosity, obsession._

The criminal smiled and wrapped his hands around Sherlock’s wrists, pinning them back against the chair as he rocked against the tent in his slacks. He doubted he would last long, even just like this. He bet that he could make the detective come just like this, soil his trousers. He had considered riding him right there, considered pinning Sherlock down beneath him and taking his pleasure, the detective utterly helpless to stop it, but he was a bit too inexperienced for that _quite yet._ Someday, perhaps. 

Until then, teasing and torturing him would be plenty. 

“Now, everyone wants me. Rogue governments, intelligence agencies, terror cells… _You.”_ He smirked, pushing a hand through his dark curls, tugging hard until those blue eyes met his. “They all want me. Suddenly, I'm Mr. Sex.” 

The criminal rolled his hips, drawing a quiet sigh from the detective, sounding like just a barely-restrained moan. He rolled them again, faster this time, pressing down harder against him. He noticed the bead of sweat forming at Sherlock’s temple, his hands clenching into fists where Moriarty held them against the chair, the clench of his jaw, the way that his eyes stared into the corner in an effort to dissociate and distract himself. Moriarty bit down against his lip, pushing down harder against the detective’s cock, making the tent in his own slacks noticeable, smirking as he felt Sherlock’s twitch in response. 

“When you’re the king, everyone wants a taste.” He teased before claiming Sherlock’s mouth, the detective powerless to stop it, though the way that he melted into him suggested that there wasn’t much resistance in him to begin with. Moriarty bit down lightly on the younger man’s lower lip, tugging slightly before releasing him. He let go of Sherlock’s wrist, fingers trailing down his arm, down his side, over his waistband. “Especially you, Sherlock. I know you feel it too. I know what you want.” 

The criminal freed the button of his slacks, unzipping them and inching them down, revealing Sherlock’s straining length beneath his boxers. White. Of course. He expected nothing else. He was well hung - shame it had never gotten the chance to be used before now, really. His boxers had an obscene wet patch in the front, damp and darkened with fluid. Moriarty licked his lips, wanting to feel it move inside of him, wanting to feel the twitch and ache of his length sheathed inside of his body, but he pushed the idea away for now. They’d get to it.

The sight that Sherlock painted beneath him was obscene, almost more obscene than what it would be when he was bare, open and vulnerable to him, as he always was. They were vulnerable to each other. They were each other’s weakness. They were each other’s vulnerability. 

The criminal waited no longer before dipping his fingers beneath the elastic waistband of Sherlock’s pants, running his fingertips over the leaking head. He wrapped his hand around his throbbing erection, slowly, torturously stroking his length, pulling his foreskin up over the head and pulling it back, smearing the fluid down his shaft. He watched with a small smirk as Sherlock’s eyes rolled back, a breathy moan escaping his lips. 

The consulting criminal slipped his fingers between the head of his cock and his foreskin, coating his fingers in Sherlock’s pre-cum before pulling away. Virgins always did get so wet. He bit down on his lower lip, fingers trailing over Sherlock’s belly as he tugged his shirt up, smearing the fluid over his skin, making a mess of him. He fully intended of making a mess of that man, bringing him to his knees. He drew his fingers up to his lips, pressing them to his tongue, sucking Sherlock’s pre-cum from his digits. Sweet. Earthy. 

“I sure like the way you taste, Sherlock.” He murmured, claiming his mouth again. 

Sherlock let out a shuddered breath as Moriarty’s fingers dipped back beneath his waistband, curling around his member. It felt better now, the damp feeling of spit-slicked skin warm and velvety against his length. He could taste himself on Moriarty’s tongue, sweet and warm and earthy. 

“What makes you think I want anything to do with you? I'll play your games, solve your riddles, but what makes you think I want your body?” Sherlock hissed through clenched teeth and closed eyes, struggling to keep his voice from shaking, Moriarty’s fist pumping slowly around his cock. 

“You are hard as a rock, darling. I know what you want.” The criminal teased. 

Sherlock strangled back a moan, eyes clenched shut as he gripped the arms of his chair, knuckles white. It felt good, overwhelmingly good, but so wrong all at the same time. It was wrong, but what exactly _was_ wrong? Right, wrong, good, evil, they were man-made concepts. But pleasure, the release of endorphins rushing through his body, that was real. That was tangible. And they were happening. 

“The penis can become erect d-due to… It can become erect due to physical stimulation.” Sherlock stammered.

The consulting criminal’s fingers curled around his balls, massaging them lightly as Sherlock struggled to breathe, watching the way that he writhed and whined beneath him. 

“Oh don't play, Sherlock, you've been hard since I walked through the door.” 

Moriarty slowly pulled off of his lap, curling his fingers beneath his waistband. The sight was even more obscene from this angle. He could plainly see ridge of his cock, see the clear seminal fluid leaking through his boxers. He was positively filthy. The criminal licked his lips before leaning forward and pressing them against the damp fabric. 

Sherlock strangled a cry of pleasure as Moriarty, his enemy, his reflection, ran his tongue along the ridge of his cock through the soiled fabric. His hands clutched the arms of his chair for dear life, struggling not to come from such simple stimulation. He moaned as the older man mouthed at his aching length through his pants. He wanted more, and he wanted it now. He wanted to thrust up into the damp warmth of his mouth, wanted to feel his tongue against his skin, wanted to be inside of him, one way or another. 

Sherlock reached down and shoved down his pants, pushing the down and letting them pool around his ankles. Moriarty sat back, eyes wide, looking shocked and almost offended, but Sherlock didn't care. He needed to feel the plush warmth of his lover’s lips wrapped around him. No more teasing. 

The consulting criminal watched as his detective stripped himself bare rather than lay subject to his torment. His length bounced against his belly, pre-cum smearing along the crumpled bottom of his shirt. He should have subject him to more torment, should have punished him for this, but fuck if he didn't look like heaven. 

“I'll solve your riddles, but I refuse to be subject to your teasing, Moriarty.” Sherlock hissed. 

“Please,” he breathed before licking a stripe from his perineum, over the crease between his balls, up the base of his cock before suckling lightly at the head, lapping up the pre-cum that had flowed freely there. Once his consulting detective was squirming, he pulled away, releasing his cock with a loud _pop._ “Call me Jim.” 

“Rather not,” Sherlock panted. “Rather keep this as impersonal as possible.”

“Oh darling, this is as personal as it gets.” He teased, licking from the base of his cock to the tip. _“We’re_ as personal as it gets.”

Sherlock finally let out a sharp cry, back arching sharply as the older man's lips wrapped around his shaft, taking him in full. His tongue swirled over the head of his cock, slowly running over the slit. The feeling was intense, perhaps more intense than anything that he'd felt in his life. It was better than any high he'd ever felt, better than nicotine, better than cocaine. The spikes of pleasure that came beneath Jim Moriarty’s touch had him writhing, higher than any drug. 

Moriarty took him in deeper, until the head of the detective’s cock was nudging the back of his throat. He cupped a hand around his balls, admiring the sight that he was making beneath him. He was gorgeous in his pleasure, almost as gorgeous as he was in his agony. Sherlock Holmes sure was pretty, prettier than his brother, for certain. He rose up, running his tongue over the slit, drawing a small cry from his throat. He slipped his tongue between the foreskin and head of his cock, pre-cum gathering on his tongue as the younger man cried out from above him, thrusting hard into his mouth. 

The consulting criminal certainly knew what he was doing with his tongue, that was for certain. It was enough to have him squirming, enough to have him needing more, almost enough to make him beg, but still not nearly enough. He wanted more, needed more. Sherlock struggled to push deeper into his mouth, struggling for friction, but the older man’s arm slammed down against his hips, holding him still.

“Patience, Sherlock.” He teased, smirk playing at his lips as he ran his tongue over the glans again. _“Virgins.”_ He muttered before taking him into his mouth again.

He didn’t want to be patient. Sherlock Holmes was anything but patient. He’d always been infamously _impatient,_ growing irritated, bored, even, when he didn’t get his way. His toes curled as he squirmed beneath him, needing more, needing to come.

He’d come in his life, sure. He may have been a virgin, but it wasn’t necessarily for lack of drive. He’d pleasured himself plenty, did it on a near daily basis, but he wasn’t used to this sort of touch, to this sort of torment. Normally, he stroked himself rough and fast, doing whatever he could to come as quickly as possible, always seeing it as something of a waste of time, but Moriarty was taking his time, and Sherlock could hardly stand himself. He was already getting so close, but it was so far away at the same time. 

The older man noticed when Sherlock’s balls began to draw up to his body, drawing tight. Orgasm was approaching, but he wasn't quite done with him yet. Without preamble, he released Sherlock’s cock and opted to instead to pay attention elsewhere. 

His hands cupped beneath the detective’s thighs, shoving his shoes and pants off and tossing them away. He pushed them high above his head. Sherlock, too caught in his own pleasure, was helpless to stop, completely at the will of James Moriarty. He let himself watch for a single moment as the pre-cum dripped from cock and over his shirt, leaving him soiled, filthy. He didn't care, though. He wanted him messy. 

Sherlock let out a sharp cry as the consulting criminal’s tongue speared deep into him without preamble. His back arched sharply, letting out a whine as he ran his tongue over his tight rim. He had never touched himself there, had never been touched there by anyone, but it felt _so good._ He reached out with one hand, running his fingers through Moriarty’s hair and tugging, tousling his perfectly slicked back hair. 

Jim pushed a finger past the detective’s rim once he felt his body begin to open up, savoring the cry he drew from Sherlock’s lips at the intrusion. His body was tight around his fingers, and he was sure that it would feel good to be sheathed inside of him, though he would much prefer to take his cock, to feel his length sheathed deep inside of him. But there would be no penetration today, not now. He’d touch him like this, make him squirm and moan and beg with his mouth and fingers alone.

“Good boy, Sherlock.” Moriarty teased with a gloating smirk, pleased that he’d reduced the detective to the debauched mess beneath him. He pushed in a second finger, finding the hardened nub tucked within him and rubbing, massaging against his prostate.

Sherlock let out a scream as Moriarty’s fingers found his prostate. He had a basic understanding of how it worked, understood it from an anatomical aspect, but he had never realized just how much pleasure it could bring. It spread through every inch of him, warm and sharp, pulsing through each inch of his body, his cock twitching and leaking even further as he tugged harder at the older man’s hair. 

Moriarty’s lips wrapped back around his cock, taking him in full, head bobbing as he let the head of his lover’s cock nudge against the back of his throat, nearly gagging on it. He continued to massage the younger man’s prostate, pleasuring him in every way that he could. He fully intended on doing this again, reducing him to a moaning mess beneath his touch, leaving him vulnerable and desperate beneath him. 

It only took a few moments before Sherlock’s orgasm overtook him, unable to hold back any longer. He let out a cry loud enough that he was sure the neighbors could hear, that everyone on Baker Street could hear, but he didn’t care. His back arched sharply and his fingers curled tighter through his lover’s hair as he thrust deeper into Moriarty’s mouth, seed spraying against the back of his throat. 

As his orgasm subsided, he slowly fell limp in the chair, never having experienced quite so intense, quite so powerful. It was more than any time he’d pleasured himself, whether it be due to the prostate stimulation or the simple fact that it was pleasure given to him by another person. 

Moriarty didn’t give him a second to compose himself, running a hand through his curls before forcing him into the floor, tugging him onto his knees. Sherlock, sated and compliant, didn't protest as the consulting criminal undid his own slacks. He freed his length, not even bothering to pull off his clothes. He wanted to make Sherlock feel like he wasn't worth the time of day, wasn't even worth taking his pants off for, wanted to teach him a lesson in humility… Not that Moriarty was any more humble. 

Sherlock, swaying lightly where he sat on his knees, parted his pink, kiss-swollen lips. The criminal gripped his straining length, giving himself a couple of cursory pumps before guiding himself to the slight opening of Sherlock’s lips, letting the pre-cum smear over them, making a mess of the boy. He was a gorgeous sight to see like this, on his knees, too lost in his own post-orgasm haze to care about anything. Moriarty could do anything he wanted to him then and the detective would probably let him. 

“Open.” Moriarty ordered, and Sherlock complied, lips parting wide enough to take his length. The criminal had always been proud of what he had, being just as well hung as the man beneath him, bigger, even. He pushed in, burrowing himself deep inside of the detective’s mouth until he felt himself hit the back of his throat. He felt Sherlock’s throat contract around him, feeling him gag lightly. Never suspected Sherlock to be a lightweight when it came to oral sex, would’ve figured that he wouldn’t have much of a gag reflex at all, but he supposed not. _Fucking virgins._

“Don’t you dare vomit. These shoes are Italian leather.” Moriarty warned as he raked his fingers through the detective’s curls, pulling tight and holding him still as he set a lazy pace. He’d take him harder once he got used to the feeling of having a cock in his mouth, but he decided to show mercy. This time. And more for the sake of his shoes than the sake of Sherlock. 

It took Sherlock a few moments to get used to the taste. It was salty, earthy, warm and human beyond what he was used to. It wasn’t necessarily a _bad_ taste. It was just strange. He felt the head of his cock nudge at the back of his throat with every lazy thrust, but he wanted to do something else. He wanted to use his tongue, wanted to really taste him. He wanted to run his tongue over the slit, slip it between his cock and his foreskin, wanted to feel each twitch and pulse. He was curious. He’d never been so close to another cock, and he couldn’t help himself but to be intrigued. 

James let out a small moan as he began to pick up speed, his hands gripping tighter through his hair as he began to thrust harder. He was a power bottom through and through, but damn if it wouldn’t feel good to be sheathed inside of Sherlock Holmes. He could only how it would feel to be inside of his hole, how it might feel to pin him down and fuck him… 

One day, maybe.

Moriarty thrust harder into Sherlock’s mouth, tugging his hair and guiding him, forcing himself deeper and deeper into his mouth. He felt Sherlock gag around him, feeling him tremble beneath his fingers, but he didn’t care. Sherlock didn’t seem to either, sucking hard around his cock, almost like he needed it. Like he wanted it. 

He liked the way that it felt, having Moriarty thrusting deep into his mouth, liked the feeling of the head of his cock nudging against the back of his throat, even liked the involuntary contraction of muscle in attempt to expel his length. It was enough to make it all go away. All of the deductions and the involuntary conclusions, they dissolved beneath the slamming of the criminal’s cock against the back of his throat. His thrusts were fast enough to cause his mind to frenzy, leaving him with nothing but static. 

And yet, he wanted more than that. 

Sherlock wrapped his arm around Moriarty’s knees and pulled him around, shoving him into the chair as the consulting detective rose to his feet, coming back to himself. He reached down in front of the chair and pulled his own pants back on, wanting some semblance of composure that was a bit hard to come by when you weren’t wearing any pants, cock hanging flaccid between your legs. He pulled his slacks up and straightened out his shirt before kneeling in front of the consulting criminal again, pushing a hand against his shoulder to keep him down. 

“We’re the same, you and I. Equals. Reflections of one another. Neither dominant over the other.” Sherlock whispered, running his tongue over his bottom lip as he buried his fingers beneath his waistband, tugging down his slacks and his underwear and letting them pool at his ankles. 

Moriarty let out a cry in feigned surprise, having saw it coming but still pleased with the outcome. His cock sprung free of the confines of his slacks, bouncing off of his stomach, pre-cum smearing over the bottom of his shirt. He should have punished him for that in one way or another, given how expensive that shirt was, but he couldn’t find it within him to care as Sherlock’s hands curled beneath his thighs and tugged him down sharply. 

_“Ooh,_ daddy, I love it when you manhandle me.” He teased.

Moriarty gasped as the detective pressed his tongue against his aching cock. It was different than how it felt when he fucked his mouth, gentler, more pointed. He let out a moan as Sherlock ran his tongue over the slit, lapping up the bead of pre-cum that had gathered there. He seemed to be exploring with his tongue, always curious about everything. It felt good, enough to make him squirm, but it wasn’t nearly enough. 

“You’re licking it like a little boy licks a lolly. Be a man and _suck it,_ Sherlock.” Moriarty demanded, running his hand through his hair before forcing his head down, forcing his mouth down around his cock. 

Sherlock nearly choked on it, but regained his composure and went back to work, suckling harder against his length. He wanted to make him squirm, wanted to make him scream, wanted to have him begging and submissive above him. He wanted to make him a reflection of what he had been only minutes ago. 

And as he sucked, paying special attention around the glans, it seemed to work. 

Sherlock noticed everything. The bead of sweat forming at his temple, the way that he licked his lips, the quickening of his heart and the dilation of his eyes, the way his knuckles were turning white as he gripped the chair. 

Sherlock could feel the criminal’s balls beginning to draw up, and he knew that he was close to his orgasm. A hand cupped around them, massaging them lightly, urging him on. He wanted him to come, wanted to feel his semen racing down his throat, feel the warmth pooling in his belly, wanted to see James Moriarty utterly debauched and vulnerable beneath his tongue. 

All it took were those skilled fingers of Sherlock’s to push him over the edge.

He had skill, especially for a virgin, but those hands were what shoved him over, orgasm taking him over. Hot ropes of come spilled down the detective’s throat, Sherlock swallowing it all. 

Sherlock pulled away, rising to his feet. He was satisfied, yet he felt something resembling guilt at the same time. He pushed his hands into his pockets, back straightened as he pushed his hair back. He knew that he shouldn't have done that, knew that sex with James Moriarty was a bad idea. Especially because he wanted more. 

“I believe it would be time for you to go.” Sherlock stated firmly. 

“No post-coital cuddling? How _rude_ of you, Sherlock!” He replied, aghast and utterly appalled. 

“Well, I was never known for my politeness.”

Moriarty rose to his feet, pulling his trousers up, fastening his button and straightening his suit and tie. He left his hair the way it was and left his tie just a bit loose, though, just enough to let any keen eye such as theirs know what he had just done. 

“One last thing. Before you leave. Why are you doing all of this? You don't want money, or power, not really.” Sherlock inquired after a moment of silence, returning to the conversation they'd been having before. He wasn't 

“I want to solve the problem. _Our_ problem. The final problem.” 

Sherlock turned to him as the criminal stepped closer, leaving them nose to nose. He inhaled sharply and resisted the urge to move, whether it be to push him away or pull him closer. He stood still as he could, hardly even breathing. 

“It's going to start very soon, Sherlock. The fall.” He whispered, seduction dripping from every word despite their previous affairs. He stood on his toes so that their lips hovered mere inches apart, so close and yet so far. “But don't be scared. Falling’s just like flying,” he mused before claiming his lips once more, brief but powerful. He pulled away slowly, biting down on Sherlock’s bottom lip before freeing him. “Except there's a more permanent destination.” 

Sherlock stood, staring down at his enemy, his lover, his reflection. His opposite and his same. Finally, he pulled away, stepping back and straightening his suit, buttoning his jacket. “Never liked riddles.” 

“Learn to. Because I owe you a fall, Sherlock.” 

I.  
Owe.   
You.


End file.
